Page 22 of Love and Other Penalties

I still have my starting position with the Bobcats, but I’d give it all up, give my spot to Xavier right now, if it means I can have Ivy.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” She squeals, a smile blooms on her face, and she bounces on the balls of her feet as I slide the ring onto her finger. My teammates cheer and whoop,applauding with their big hands, as Ivy throws herself into my arms and matches her mouth to mine.

So much love streams through me, especially when she pulls away to say, “I love you, Tomcat.”

“I love you too, Kitten.”

“What’s going on here?” Coach Kessler’s voice cuts through the celebration in the hallway. “Why isn’t my starting lineup in the locker room, ready to go?”

“Let’s go, guys,” Zane says, and I jump to my feet, as I still need to skate up. But now that I don’t have this question and that ring weighing me down, I have a feeling my game is about to get a whole lot more focused.

I skateat full speed toward the Blue Ridge Buffalo who’s dared to challenge me now that the puck has crossed the blue line. I entered the offensive zone only a hair’s breadth behind it, and I am not letting this guy bang me around again.

It’s been two and a half periods of him semi-beating me up, and I’m over it. We’re up two-to-one, but I want to get us to three and let the next lineup come in for a few minutes. I haven’t scored yet, and I need to in order to keep my stat of scoring in every game since I took my mini-sabbatical to go to Japan to cheer on Ivy.

The opposing defenseman is bigger than me, but that only means I’m faster. I think of Ivy and how complimentary of my footwork she’s always been. In hockey, we don’t call it “footwork,” but elite skating, or flow.

Sniperflows through my mind, and I remind myself that I still have my position, I’m still a great player, and I’m living my dream.

The crowd’s roar swells in my ears, but I’m locked on the Buffalo defenseman trying to pin me along the boards. I throw a quick shoulder fake and use a tight turn to shake him. My edges bite into the ice, and I slip past him like smoke through a keyhole.

Jude threads me a crisp pass right on the tape. I cradle it, keeping my blade soft so the puck doesn’t bounce away. My eyes flick up—the goalie’s hugging the near post, stick low, blocker ready.

I fake the wrister, slide the puck to my backhand, and wheel toward the crease. The Buffalo defenseman’s stick swipes empty air as I toe-drag around him, protecting the puck with my body. My stride never breaks. This is what flow feels like—when everything else falls away and there’s only the game, only the moment, only the perfect confluence of skill and heart.

I cut hard to the goalie’s glove side, drop my weight into a crossover, and load my right leg. He shifts with me, readingshot!

I can hear plenty of people screaming it, but all sound becomes nothing as I sell the move, then slide the puck backhand across my body and rip it forehand, high glove side.

The crowd’s volume lifts as…

The clang of puck kissing iron before it hits mesh sends pure electricity through my veins.

Bar down.

Goal!I scream in my head.

The goal horn sounds, the red light flares, and the barn erupts like a symphony of pure joy. I pump my fist toward the rafters as my goal song blasts through the arena.

Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame, darlin’ you give love, a bad name.

The guitar riff comes in strong as the crowd finishes chanting the lyrics, and my offensive teammates swarm me at the boards,gloves smacking my helmet as the other Bobcats slap their sticks on the ice.

The scoreboard clicks to 3–1, and as the announcers voice reverberates through Bobcat Arena, the fan section going positively feral with their homemade signs that read “Fear the Bobcat!” and “Finn for the Win!”

As the opening stanza of the song ends and goes into the lower bass part, the crowd starts chanting, “You got sni-iped!” with two claps afterward.

You got sni-iped! (clap clap), and I pump my stick in time with their claps to spur them on, then keep going so I don’t get a penalty, even if I’m celebrating with my own team and fans.

I can’t stop grinning as I skate back to our side of the ice, and I run my stick along the glass in front of where Ivy’s sitting with the other WAGs. Our eyes meet, and she’s on her feet, hands beating together, eyes shining with love.

And just like that, I’m not thinking about the Olympics, or the break, or even the stat sheet.

I’m thinking about how I’m skating off this ice a winner—in more ways than one.